


Tomorrow

by inber



Series: Inber's Geralt x Reader Fanfiction [9]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Not Canon Compliant, One Shot, Out of Character, Romance, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23670778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: Today has sucked. Geralt makes you feel better again. Fluffy comfort drabble.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/You
Series: Inber's Geralt x Reader Fanfiction [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840087
Comments: 10
Kudos: 85





	Tomorrow

Your whole body hits the oak of your front door like the wet slap of a wave on sand, hefting it open so you can stumble over the threshold and into the warmth of your quiet house. Today has been one of those days; you’d felt it in the marrow of your bones upon waking, had debated staying in the safe cocoon of your bed like a hesitant butterfly, and had ultimately reasoned that a vague _feeling_ wasn’t a good enough reason to ignore all of your responsibilities.

 _Damn intuition_ , you thought. That bitch was always right.

At work, you were besieged with customers that were fussy and demanding and greedy. You’d delivered product from your baker’s oven as fast as your hands could function – suffering more than a few small burns in the process – but the day’s rush had been overwhelming. People complained when there wasn’t any more rye bread. You’d had to listen to some senile spinster bark about how you’d under-seasoned your pepper-steak pies, ultimately resulting in her obtaining a refund so she’d _shut the fuck up_ , and you being subsequently forced to throw out an entire batch of sourdough buns because they’d fried to a charcoal crisp whilst she was chewing your ear. At the close of the day, you’d found the day’s takings did not match the order tally kept, and you suspected one of your staff was skimming a few coins off the top of orders. Lastly, after you’d finally swept, mopped, and prepared the place for the next morning by yourself – because your kitchen-hand had to leave his shift halfway through, begging a headache – you’d tripped over an open bag of bread flour, and had spilt the damn stuff all over the kitchen floor.

The very worst of it was that Geralt was _still_ away on a hunt, and you didn’t expect him back until the next evening.

In the hallway of your home, you stand for a moment, smeared with sweat and flour and sesame oil, and in a rage, you rip the apron from your body, hurl it to the floor, and scream your frustration into the empty house. The darkness echoes it back to you, taunting, and you feel the first sobs deep in your stomach, the kind of crying that begins without tears; you let it come, let your distress bleed from your lips like a sliced wound, raw. You are so wrapped up in the ache of misery that you don’t even hear Roach’s hooves outside.

Geralt picks up your weeping before he even opens the door, and anxiously he dismounts his lovely steed, neglecting to stable her for the moment in order to get to you as quickly as possible. “Darling heart?” He calls, as he shoves the door open hard enough for the wood to bang against the wall, showering a fine dust of plaster, “Are you–?”

You jump at his entry, wide-eyed, the tracks of your fresh tears glistening in the violet twilight that sneaks like a fae-spell through your enormous windows. He strides to you immediately as you sniffle and wipe at your face with the back of your arm, embarrassed at being caught during such a moment of vulnerability. He is probably exhausted from his hunt; he doesn’t need to be dealing with the mess that you personify at the moment. “Geralt,” You croak, “I’m okay, I just…” Your voice cracks as you speak, and he cups your beautiful face in his large hands, tender, gentle.

“No you’re _not,_ my sweetest love.” He whispers, the rasp of his cinder-smoke voice exposing your truth, and as he sweeps away another fat, wet tear from your tender cheek, you feel the last bastion of your resolve crumble away like the crush of a tulip pressed between parchment papers.

You collapse into him, trusting him to support you, howling against his leathers as he holds you like the most precious treasure in the world; a baby bird, flightless and frightened nestled in his palm; the first unfurling of an uncertain fern frond against the frost of morning. Words don’t come to you, just the press of fatigue and the depression that claws ugly up your throat, your wounded-animal whimpers tapering into silent nothings as he holds you, kissing your crown teased unruly by an awful day, the strength of his embrace steady and constant. He says nothing at all, simply picks you from the ground like a chosen clover with lucky leaves, and carries you up the stairs to your bed.

It is dark, but you know he can see perfectly well. He opens your bedroom door and gently lays you upon the covers – work-grime and all – and you hear the click of his leathers as he unbuckles his armour. The mattress gives to his weight, and you feel him behind you, gathering you into the huge expanse of his chest as he cuddles into you, his nose at the nape of your neck. “Do you want to talk about it, love?” He asks, and you know the offer is genuine.

“Today was _awful._ ” You mutter into the skin of his bicep, nuzzling further into him, wishing you could always feel this safe and supported. Gods, you miss him when he is away. “And I think… coming home to an empty house.” You shudder. “I hated it.”

He makes a soft sound, a house-cat’s purr; his hands are in your hair, toying with the strands, his fingertips making small circles in your scalp the way he knows you love it. He curls your locks around his thick thumbs, tries to pick streaks of flour out, presses dove-feather kisses at your temples. “I didn’t sleep last night, so I’d come home to you earlier.” He confesses, even as you make an indignant sound at his poor self-care. “I couldn’t sleep. I missed you, too.”

The stress of the day is melting like hot beeswax under his careful attentions, and you finally let your body begin to uncoil from the pressure it’s been under; you feel your sinew smooth as he strokes your hair, feel your spine lengthen and loosen, feel the warmth of him at your back and forget where your flesh ends and his begins. And when you think he can’t spoil you with his softness any further, he begins to _sing._

You’ve never heard him sing. You want to hold your breath so you don’t miss a note, a word; his voice is the richness of morning-roasted coffee, the timbre of something unearthly and spiritual, like the languid flow of fresh tree-sap dripping from a maple. The language he speaks is foreign, but you recognise the lilt of a lullaby, one written for a dear and enduring love. His chest rumbles with the vocals, the wash of his breath over your exposed ear a conduit for your shivering, and you realise he’s been gently rocking you this whole time. Slowly, so slowly; you’re adored in the private hush of the room you share, and anything beyond the walls has faded out of existence. None of it matters right now. He has you, and you let him claim the possession. It doesn’t matter why you’re upset, the detail of it; however small or large the hurt, he’s there to soothe it.

As the last notes of his song linger in the air like sacred incense, you turn your head just enough to meet his mouth in a kiss of gratitude; it’s an unrushed thing, a meeting of mutual love and comfort, and you feel him smile against your lips as you part. “What?” You whisper, floating in a strange place between consciousness and a sorceress’ dream, chasing fireflies behind your slow-blinking eyes.

“I’ve never been so deeply,” He kisses your ear, “Utterly,” Your jawline, “Madly _in love_ , in all my years walking this world.” His confession rushes through you in an electric thrill, and you feel the prick of tears in your tired eyes again.

“Stay tomorrow,” You ask of him, “And the day after that.”

“And the day after that?” His voice is the phantom of a whisper, as you let the pin-pricks of light behind your eyelids guide you on a journey into slumber, the lick of sleep a warm ocean current that tugs and begs of you, sea-foam slumber popping the vestiges of your conscious mind.

“ _F’rever._ ” You manage, and he smiles into your hair, feeling you succumb to rest in his embrace.

“Forever it is, then.” He promises, and somewhere adrift in that sea of sweetness, you smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can follow my Tumblr, @inber for drabble/general ramblings.


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